


The Most Wonderful Time

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Christmas, Family, Gift Fic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie believes in Santa Claus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Wonderful Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laylee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laylee/gifts).



> Written January 2008, a late pinch hit for sn_holidays, from laylee's prompt _Dan/Casey, Charlie, holiday schmoop_. In the interests of full disclosure: this is pretty much an expansion of my drabble Happiest Time – and nicks at least one element from quiesce's [Remix of same](http://community.livejournal.com/remix_redux/21177.html).

When I was a little kid, I used to think my mom was kind of crazy.

I don't mean I didn't love her – she's my mom, after all – but she used to say and do all these things that I thought were totally dumb. Like, for instance, I could never figure out why she'd make me go to bed in the middle of the day, when I wasn't even tired and it was still daylight out, and then come and wake me up when I was sleeping, sometimes when it was still dark. Truthfully, that still doesn't make much sense to me, not even now. Or there was the way she was always telling me that bad-tasting things were good for me, when to my mind it stood to reason they couldn't be. And then there was Santa Claus. Right from when I was a baby she tried her hardest to make me think there wasn't any such person as Santa, it was all make-believe, and perhaps I might've believed her if I hadn't, you know, _seen him_, that very day, down at the mall, red coat, beard, and everything.

I told her that, and she laughed at me. "He's in every mall, sweetheart. It's just someone pretending. He's not real, Charlie, honestly."

Like I told you: crazy. _Pretend_ to be Santa Claus? Why would anyone pretend to be Santa Claus, who, as far as I could tell from everything I'd heard, was the only person in the world who worked longer hours than my dad? I used to worry about that – about whether there was a Mrs Santa Claus, and whether they had any kids, and did they ever see their dad, and did Mrs Claus get mad at him when he came home really, really late and didn't shut the door quietly enough, the way that my mom used to. It didn't seem fair, was what I thought. Santa worked real hard all year round to see that everyone else had a happy Christmas, but I didn't see that he got much out of the deal.

(I probably didn't set it all out quite as clearly as that, seeing as I was only about six years old at the time. It was just a feeling I had. But, when you're little, a feeling's more than enough to keep you awake at night, worrying about it.)

I know I was worried, 'cause I remember I asked my dad about it. I didn't usually ask him about stuff Mom told me, because if I did, and he asked me what Mom had said, he'd just nod and tell me that she probably knew best – "She usually does," he'd say, and he'd get a funny look on his face that I didn't quite like to see there.

This time, though, he stopped and thought about it for a very long time, and then he said, "You know, Charlie, your mom's usually right, and maybe what you saw _was_ just someone pretending. But … well, you never can tell, can you?" And he smiled at me, and winked, and whispered, "We'll keep that a secret, shall we? Just us guys?" So I nodded and said yes. _Just us guys_. I loved it when my dad counted me in on his side.

I asked Danny about it too – I always did ask Danny when I wasn't sure about anything that Mom or Dad said, because Danny never treated me like a kid, or talked down to me, or told me stuff that was for my own good and I'd be thankful for it later. Danny listened to what I had to say, and he'd think about it, and then we'd have a long, serious discussion and thrash out all the options. For once, though, he wasn't very much help to me. I guess he must've had some extra work to do that day, 'cause instead of playing with me like he usually did, he'd let me pick out a video and lie on the rug to watch it while he sat at the table writing, and when I got bored with the movie (it was that _Robin Hood_ thing where everyone's a fox or something) and I turned around and started talking to him, it took him a couple of minutes to put down his pen and listen to me. When he did, and he'd asked me what Mom and Dad had said and I'd told him, he didn't say anything much, just made a sort of "H'mm," noise, and then he told me that actually, he wasn't much of an expert on Santa Claus.

I was pretty puzzled, because I figured _everyone_ must know all about Santa, and I'd always thought Danny was so, so smart and knew much more than most ordinary people. So I said, "Why not?" and that's when he explained that he didn't really do Christmas at all. Tried to explain, I should say, because when I heard that, it seemed like just about the worst thing ever. I really loved Danny, you see – next to Mom and Dad, I thought he was the greatest person in the world, and it was the whole Santa Claus thing all over again, if anyone deserved to have a happy Christmas, it was Danny. I remember I got pretty upset. I must've still carried on yelling after Danny got me into bed, because when Mom and Dad came home and she ran up to see me, I could hear Dad downstairs in the hallway saying, "Good lord, Rydell, what did you do to my kid?" – not in a mean way, he was laughing – and Danny said something about how he hadn't been expecting to have to run through Judaism 101 just yet, and his lecture notes could maybe do with some work. Dad laughed some more, and Mom got up and shut the door in a very cross and decided sort of way, so I didn't ask her what Danny had meant, even though I hadn't understood a word of what he'd said.

That was when I came up with my cunning and secret plan.

Next time Dad had a day off work, I asked him if we could go to the mall. He had to say yes, 'cause that was the rule – I guess he felt bad that he didn't spend more time with me, or something – but he rolled his eyes a bit, and asked me if I was absolutely sure. "It's going to be awfully busy, Charlie," he told me. "Everywhere's going to be really crowded." And he suggested some other things we could do, I don't remember what they were 'cause I wasn't listening. I was set on the mall, even when I saw Mom and Dad exchanging glances and shrugs, and heard Dad mutter to her that he'd be buying me a 'Born to Shop!' teeshirt for Christmas.

"And," I said, "I want Danny to come with us."

Dad looked puzzled. "Danny has to work, Charlie. You know, when I'm not at the station, that's when Dan has to do my job as well as his – he has to look at all the tapes, and write the scripts, and make sure the place doesn't go to hell in a handbasket while my back's turned – "

Mom broke in then to tell him off for saying 'hell', and when she was through, I crossed my arms and stuck out my lip, and I glared, until Dad sighed, and said he'd give Danny a call and see if he could spare a couple hours.

I've got to tell you that, from what I recall, when Danny joined us at the mall, he didn't seem nearly as pissed off about being dragged away from the studio as Dad had made out he was going to be. In fact, the look on his face seemed to me to be a whole lot like the way I felt whenever I got an unexpected day off school. But I put on a very polite voice, and told him 'thank you' for sparing us the time, and he got very formal and shook my hand and said it was his pleasure, and thank _you_ – me, that is – for inviting him along, and then we both started laughing, and Dad got very firm and made 'cut it out, you two' noises, and then he said we needed a Plan of Attack for the mall, which just made Danny laugh even more.

"You wish!" he said. "You know what it's like this time of year, this close to Christmas. It's every man for himself in there – " and then he started saying something else, only I didn't really hear it, because in my head all I could hear was this big, disappointed 'Oh!'

You see, the whole point of my wonderful and devious secret plan was that I'd been going to introduce Danny to the joy and wonder of Christmastime, using the shopping mall as my instructional medium of choice. Only now it seemed that he already knew all about it.

Still: we were here now, and maybe I shouldn't give up just yet. Maybe I'd find something in there that might help him understand it properly, and if I did, maybe I could be the one to explain it to him.

Santa waved us into the mall, ringing on his handbell, and told us, "Merry Christmas!"

"Did you see Santa Claus, Danny?" I asked him, and he looked down at me and smiled and said yes, yes, he had, thank you. Then there were about a million other things to show him – the lights, and the stars, and the trees, and the mini skating rink they'd set up in one of the courtyards, and the grotto with the dancing polar bears and penguins and gnomes and things, which Dad and Danny seemed to think was tremendously funny, for some reason. And then there was Santa again, who must've run pretty fast to get here before we did, but (I reasoned) that shouldn't be too hard for someone who could drive a sleigh round the whole earth in one nighttime. He was in his own grotto this time, with all his little elves standing round to help him, beckoning us in, and how could I say no?

I tugged at Dad's sleeve. "Can I go and visit with Santa Claus, please, Dad?" I begged – I put an extra little whine into the 'please', just to show how much I meant it, and tipped my head on one side, and made myself all googly-eyed. I was kind of a bratty kid, now I look back. I thought for an awful moment he was going to say no – he started to frown, and say, "Your mother –" but then Danny whispered something to him, and he just shrugged and said, "Oh, okay then. And it's 'may I', Charlie, not 'can I' – all right?"

I was miles away by then, standing at the end of the line to go sit on Santa's knee and tell him my Christmas wishes. I didn't even really notice when Dad and Danny caught up with me, I was too busy craning my neck to see ahead, to see how long I'd have to wait, but I felt them each take one of my hands, and I squeezed both of theirs very tight.

They were still holding my hands when we got to the head of the line. They let go when we reached Santa, and Danny lifted me up under my arms to sit in Santa's lap, then he and Dad stood back together. Santa and I had a little talk, then he waved to one of the elves, who held up a camera and told us to smile, but then Santa told her to hold on just a moment.

"Where's young Charles's family?" he asked, looking around. "Would they like to be in the picture too?"

I pointed, and said, "Over there," where Danny was standing with his hand on Dad's shoulder, saying something close up against Dad's ear, and Dad had his head bent, listening to him, just smiling. He looked really happy; I remember I thought that, but I don't know if I realised back then that that was the only time I ever saw that particular smile on his face, when he was talking to Danny.

I know now – _now_, of course I know – what Santa thought I meant, but, like I said before, back then I was just a little kid, so when he said to me, "Are those your two daddies?" I just laughed, thinking he was joking. Because, first of all, whoever heard of anyone having two daddies, and, second of all, Santa had to have _known_ who they were, Santa knows who everyone is. So I said, "That's Danny and Dad," in a tone of for-heaven's-sake-you-idiot which, come to think of it, is no way to talk to Santa Claus, and Santa just shrugged and said, "Then let's get Danny and Dad in the picture with you, young Charles," and he sent an elf to fetch them over.

I saw the smile fade from Dad's face; he stepped back, and he started to say something, holding up his hands shaking his head, but Danny touched his arm and spoke to him – probably something like "Why not?" or "Where's the harm?" I suppose – and they both came over, arranged themselves on either side of Santa's throne, the camera flashed, and it was over.

The elf gave me the photo, and I held it up carefully by the edges, like she said, so as not to smudge it, and waved it around a bit to dry it. When I held it out to look at it, I was really pleased: there was Santa, with me on his lap, and there was Danny, and you could see from the look on his face that he was about to burst out laughing; and there was Dad, except that he'd forgotten to look at the camera, he was looking at Danny instead, and he was smiling at him the way he sometimes smiled at me, when he came to kiss me goodnight, when we'd had a really special day, when I'd done something to make him proud.

I loved it.

"I'm going to keep this forever!" I announced, and tucked it down the front of my coat to keep it flat.

I would have done, too, but it got lost. I don't know how … I mean, I didn't know then, and I don't honestly know for sure now, but I can guess. Because, when Mom saw it, she went ballistic. She sent me up to my room so I wouldn't hear, but it made no difference: I couldn't hear the words, but the yelling carried clear through the walls. It wouldn't surprise me if the whole street heard. I thought it must be my fault – I thought it was because of what she'd said about Santa Claus, and maybe she was mad that we'd proved her wrong, that here he was, right there in the photograph with us, so didn't that just show he must be real? I thought she was mad we'd made her look stupid.

In a way, I suppose, she had a point.

I was crying when Dad came in to say goodnight to me. He looked almost as miserable as I felt, but he tried to pretend everything was okay and, when I tried to say I was sorry for making Mom mad, he hushed me. "It's not your fault, Charlie," he told me. "Trust me. Whatever happens, believe me when I tell you that none of this is your fault."

The photo was gone when I looked for it the next morning, and I was too scared to ask Mom about it. And when I realised that Danny had stopped coming round to our house any more, I was too scared to ask about that, too.

We were allowed to go visit Danny's apartment, though, Dad and me. At least, I guess we were. We _did_ – let's put it that way. The first time we went there after the fight, Danny met us by the front door, and when he saw me he hunkered down and reached out his arms and hugged me, real close, like he'd missed me as much as I was missing him. That made me feel good. And, when we got up to his apartment and I saw that our Santa photo was pinned up on his fridge – not the real photo, but the copy he'd had made in the mall before we'd gone home that day – I felt even better. I told him my one had got lost, and he listened seriously, nodding his head, and making "M'm-h'm" noises. When I'd finished, he went over to the fridge and took the photo down.

"You know what, Charles?" he said. "If this is the only copy, then it's yours, okay? Only, I'll tell you what. Why don't I keep it here, and take care of it for you, just so we can make sure this one doesn't get lost too? And, just to keep it safe, I'm going to see if I can't find a frame to put it in …" He was rummaging around in a bureau drawer as he was speaking, pulled out something in a picture frame – not a photo, a bit of paper with writing on – opened it up, took out the paper, put my photo in instead, then closed it back up and propped it on one of the bookcases. "How's that?"

"That's great!" I said, and I hugged him again. "Thank you, Danny!"

Times like those, I used to wish that Danny really was my second dad. He wasn't, of course. Not back then.

Because, crazy as I used to think my mother was, it turned out that my dad was crazier still. It took him almost fifteen years after he'd first met Danny – more than five years after he and Mom had split up – to admit to himself, still less any of us, that it was Danny he'd been in love with all along. He promised me that, right up until the end, he and Dan had never even kissed, and I believed him – and not just because, while I'm very happy for them and all, I do _not_ want to think about my dad and Danny having sex, not with anyone else and definitely not with one another, thank you. Ew. But Danny said so too, when he and I sat down to talk about the whole thing – "And what's more," he added, "right up until the very last minute, I still thought he was going to chicken out on me."

That's my dad. Crazy. Offer him the best thing in the world, the thing that he wants more than anything, and he'll just stand there and look at you, like he doesn't believe you, or thinks you're joking, or that he doesn't deserve it, or something.

I sometimes wonder, though, if it was that photo that first put the idea into his head – that first made him realise how he truly felt. Maybe it was. Maybe not. Maybe he knew it all along, but just didn't ever let himself see it. Whatever. They're together now, and, if I ever see Santa again, I'll be sure to let him know that me and my two dads are getting along together just fine, thank you very much.

And you know what else?

These days, Danny's right there celebrating Christmas alongside the rest of us.

***


End file.
